


The Sniper at the Gates of Heaven

by JoeLawson



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, Families of Choice, Family, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoeLawson/pseuds/JoeLawson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like giving a gun to a six-year-old...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sniper at the Gates of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gblvr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gblvr/gifts).



>   
> _Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,_  
>  When the wind blows the cradle will rock;  
> When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,  
> Down will come baby, cradle, and all.
> 
> (Mother Goose's Melody, c. 1765)

 

  
**Part One:  
**  
The Day the Whole World Went Away  


So maybe they'd underestimated Max. It had been an easy mistake to make. After all, even _Max_ had underestimated Max. Super-villainy aspirations aside, he'd had a clear vision of what he wanted and how to achieve it. Drop a few snukes. Create a little chaos. Then use a clever system of mirrored satellites to fry all electronics worldwide – except for the specially protected equipment he'd squirreled away, obviously – and gain incredible power and influence once the initial pandemonium had settled down some. Recreate the world to his specifications and restore order as he saw fit.

What Max hadn't reckoned with was the possibility of an enormous solar flare intensifying the effect of his space weapon during a test run and the effects this highly amplified pulse had not only on electrical systems but nature as a whole. Helped along by the force of the electromagnetic shockwave, the tectonic plates shifted, causing earthquakes and volcanic eruptions that in turn brought about tsunamis, fires, and humongous ash clouds. Roland Emmerich would've had a field day, if he hadn't perished in the great Los Angeles earthquake an hour into the whole thing.

Los Angeles wasn't the only place shaken apart by a massive quake. Middle and South America were hit hard, parts of China were leveled, the Near East suffered tremendous damages, and some coastal areas broke off the main land completely. The tidal waves triggered by deep sea quakes wiped out parts of India, most of Indonesia, and whole islands from Japan to the Caribbean. Volcanic eruptions made things even worse. The Eyjafjallajökull in Iceland was the first to go off, followed in something that looked suspiciously like a chain reaction by Mount Etna in Sicily, Mount Ararat in Turkey, the Ol Doinyo Lengai in Tanzania, and then a whole string of smaller volcanoes in Indonesia and southeastern Asia. Clouds of ash darkened the sky. The Santiaguito in Guatemala went from minor to major activity, as did the Colima in Mexico... everybody expected Mount St. Helen to erupt, but it was Mount Rainier that blew its top and eradicated the surrounding towns.

Help was slow in coming if it came at all; potential helpers had their hands full with the chaos generated by the complete loss of mobility and communications. Hospitals and clinics were hopelessly swamped and had to make do with what little battery-powered equipment could be scrounged up. In the first few minutes (long before it got really bad), people also died like flies in traffic - or rather, the unexpected cessation of traffic. Planes fell from the sky like so much scrap metal. Some managed to glide down, but not all of them. Max's little "end of civilization as we know it" ray overloaded parts of the power network before it eliminated it, causing fires and more than a few small and not-so-small explosions. Several major nuclear incidents followed, though thankfully most nuclear power plants simply powered down.

The complete communications breakdown doubled the spreading panic. Suddenly, in an age where people were used to being in near constant touch with their social networks, no contact was possible. Cell phones were useless, landlines just as dead. There wasn't a single computer that survived the global hit. The internet was lost in its entirety: every bit of information stored online, every picture, every text and graphic and dancing pixel was gone. There was no way to call for help except to put up signs, burn shit, or scream really loud. There was no way to find out whether your mama was still alive but to walk over to her house and check.

* * *

The Losers were lucky insofar as they were in Houston when it all started, breaking into Goliath headquarters to steal the algorithms they needed in order to decrypt Max's hard drive. Later - months after everything had gone down - they would piece the story together, but right then they didn't connect the end of the world with Max. They didn't even realize it was the end of the world at first, because they had more immediate problems.

Like everybody else, they were completely surprised when the flash of light came. The air seemed to hum for a few seconds and press against their skin. Down in the parking garage, Pooch's van died. Out on the street, Roque's rented SUV did the same. Their comms crackled and went out. Well, most of their comms. Aisha got zapped in the ear. Way up in the Goliath building, every single office computer went bang and expired.

At the time, Jensen was being held at gunpoint by three security guards. They didn't know quite what to make of him; "Skippy" had been where he wasn't supposed to be and "Skippy" had smacked Big Joe with a briefcase, but "Skippy" was also a bespectacled geek with Bambi eyes and nerdy clothes who looked about as threatening as a basket full of kittens.

Chances were, Jensen would've gotten out of the situation without a scratch, except that the sudden slap of energy and the collective outcry in the office area behind them startled them all. With one of the guards, that startlement translated into a twitch of his trigger finger. The only thing that saved Jensen from being killed was that he flinched and dropped instinctively when he felt that weird, full-body pressure. The small-caliber bullet passed right over him, ricocheted off the bulletproof glass behind him and embedded itself in his right shoulder blade, pushing him to the floor forcefully and painting the white marble with a splash of red.

Cougar planted three armor-piercing rounds through the window and was up and running before the bodies of the guards had toppled over. His earpiece was dead, not even static to hear, but he barked out a situation report anyway on the off-chance that his throat mic was still working. Nobody had realized what had happened yet. Cougar saw people mill around the elevators, bitching because they seemed to be stuck, so he slammed through the emergency exit and raced down the fifty-seven flights to the lobby in the dark. He collected Roque as he darted across the street, blind to the lack of moving traffic, and they pelted into the Goliath building side by side.

"Emergency service," Roque bellowed at the alarmed receptionist. "Guy trapped in the elevator is having a heart attack!"

"Oh my God," she squeaked, and pointed a finger at an unobtrusive door half hidden behind a potted plant. "Take the stairs, I'll call 911!" The last thing he heard her yell as he bolted after Cougar was a panicky, "The phone's dead! Helloooo? Helloooo!"

 _Thank you, God, for small mercies_ , Roque thought. He hadn't been able to raise Clay on the comms either, but the last thing they needed right then was the cops getting involved. Whatever had happened to Jensen must've been bad for Cougar to leave behind his rifle and break cover like this. And then Roque stopped thinking and saved every bit of energy he had to make the run up to the fifty-sixth floor. There was no light, not even the usual weak glow of the emergency signs, but stairs were easy, they were consistent. Once Roque's brain had established the pattern, his body took over and catapulted him up the steps without a stumble.

They were both of them in excellent shape, but by the time Cougar pushed open the door and headed for the screaming, he was panting roughly. Roque staggered after him, cursing whatever had caused the power outage. He was half-blind now and he was definitely going to be sore. Then he rounded the final corner between them and Jensen, and promptly forgot about his burning muscles.

Cougar had been thorough as always. Three men lay dead, most of their heads gone in a splatter of bone, blood, and brains, which explained the hysterical wails of a skinny office worker and the green faces of a group of women who stood and stared at the carnage. They could've just left, but no, they'd rather stay and be a nuisance. Roque solved the problem by applying boot to backside as often as it took to get rid of the unnecessary extras and slamming shut the heavy glass doors that separated the elevator bank from the office area. Just in case security decided to show up after all. Only then did he let himself take in the scene before him.

The good news was that Jensen was still alive. He was face-down on the ground, staring at the wall with glassy eyes from under half-closed lids. His breathing was shallow and raspy, too loud in the silence that followed the ejection of the gawkers, his skin even paler than usual and covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat. Shit. He was going into shock. Might have something to do with the bad news, which was the growing puddle of blood spreading around his torso.

A scared-looking kid with a bad haircut and tortoiseshell glasses was kneeling beside Jensen and pressing what seemed to be a wadded up suit jacket against his back. Cougar was trying to make him ease up so he could assess the damage, but the kid was so spooked he either couldn't hear him or was too wired to let go. Since Cougar looked about a second away from pulling his gun and shooting the boy off his teammate, which was no way to treat the only person who'd cared to try and give Jensen some first aid, Roque stepped in quickly.

"Hey, man, good job," he said, voice as low and silky as he could make it. He stepped behind the kid and started to pull him back. "Good job," he repeated. "Now let my friend take over, okay? He's a medic. He knows what he's doing."

The thin, wiry arms in his grip trembled, but the kid weighed about a buck forty, if that. Roque peeled him off Jensen like a wet raincoat, keeping up a litany of praise, because as far as he was concerned the kid deserved it. He deposited the boy in a corner where he wouldn't be in the way and took his place at Jensen's side to assist Cougar. The suit jacket had already been pushed aside to reveal the blood-soaked shirt beneath. Cougar flicked open his switchblade and cut off the soggy material with careful precision.

"How the hell did he manage to get shot in the back when he was facing these guys?" Roque muttered, because with Jensen down someone had to fill the quiet.

Cougar didn't look up from his inspection of the still bleeding wound. "Ricochet," he said curtly, and then, apparently not immune to the lack of Jensen's voice either, he added, "Small caliber. It's still in there." He slipped out of his sleeveless jeans jacket and pulled his t-shirt over his head to improvise a decent pressure bandage then shrugged the jacket back on out of habit.

"He needs a hospital," Roque noted calmly. He produced one of his own knives, grabbed the discarded suit jacket, and started to cut the fabric into strips. "There's gotta be something broken in there."

"The phones are dead," the kid interjected. He was watching the proceedings with huge eyes and shaking hands. "And the elevators are stuck. My name's Carl Berg. I work in accounting. Do you think this is a terrorist attack?"

"Nobody's being attacked," Roque said firmly, but the part of his brain that wasn't focused on his teammates was starting to add up all those pesky snippets of information and though the picture that formed was vague, Roque didn't like it one bit. Their comms were down. Phones were useless, including cell phones. No lights, no elevators, no air condition. He'd felt a weird surge of _something_ and then his car had died on him and so had every other car he'd seen when he'd stopped cussing and had gotten out. He hadn't had the time to wonder about it, because that's when Cougar had shot out of the American Trust building he'd used as his sniper's nest like his tail had been on fire, had grabbed Roque and pulled him along like a puppy on a leash. Still. Everything else he could chalk up to a power outage, but the cars... the cars worried him.

"These guys were shot," Carl reminded him, and inched a little closer so he could watch Cougar take care of Jensen. "Who do you think did it? Do you think we're in danger? Do you think it was terrorists?"

Jesus, what was it with people and terrorists these days? Roque was paranoid by nature, but even he didn't automatically assume every shitty little thing that went wrong was due to some rogue Muslim out to earn his seventy-two virgins.

"They weren't shot by terrorists," Roque growled, for while Cougar might've occasionally terrorized Pooch into handing over the last Twinkie, that didn't make him qualify. "There are no terrorists here."

Of course that was when Clay shouldered open the glass doors and strode in with his gun drawn, Pooch and Aisha at his heels and looking exceptionally terroristic. Roque hung his head. Sometimes, you couldn't win. He sighed and watched Carl retreat back into his corner and try to make himself invisible. At least he wouldn't annoy Cougar anymore.

"Sit rep, now," Clay demanded, gun aimed at Carl and glare aimed at Roque.

Roque, who'd kept cutting up the bloody jacket, started to tie the strips of fabric together with quick, practiced movements. "He's caught a ricochet in the back," he explained tersely. "Pooch."

Pooch immediately put away his weapon and broke formation to join Roque and Cougar at Jensen's side. He grimaced when he saw the extent of the injury then nodded and helped Roque lift up Jensen's torso so Cougar could wrap the improvised bandage around the wounded man's chest and shoulder. Jensen cried out softly in pain, but he didn't fight them and he made no other sound even though his breath quickened dangerously.

"Shhhh," Roque soothed him, and brushed his thumb back and forth over Jensen's skin. "Almost done, bro. Almost done. You're doing fine. You're doing good. It's almost over. Just a little longer."

Jensen shuddered in their grip, but his breathing slowed down some, tried to match the rhythm of Roque's words. Roque smiled thinly and kept talking. It wasn't the first time they'd done this. When Jensen was hurt and there was no choice but to tough it out until they could get him to safety, the combination of Cougar's touch and Roque's voice usually kept him calm and easy to handle. They each had their way of dealing with pain. Jensen's was actually one of the healthiest. Clay tended to bite his fingers bloody to keep himself quiet. Pooch punched people. Roque ground his teeth until his jaws hurt and his teammates freaked.

They put Jensen down gently once it was done and breathed out a collective sigh of relief when it appeared the pressure bandage had stopped the bleeding for the moment, or at least slowed it down significantly.

"We need to get him out of here," Clay said tightly. "Something's wrong." He hesitated then added grudgingly, "Beyond the usual."

Roque looked down at Jensen's face, tight with pain and very white against the copper-colored skin of Cougar's hand, and felt his teeth grind together. Fifty-six floors, in the dark, with a bullet in his back. This was going to hurt.

Jensen met his stare levelly. "Do it."

"Try to pass out this time, okay?" Pooch told him unhappily.

"Yeah," Jensen breathed, shakily. "Sounds like a good idea."

But of course he didn't.

* * *

There was no police outside, no ambulance, no goons in ParSec uniforms. There were just confused and slightly scared people everywhere and a few fires in the distance. No alarms though. No sirens. No sound of fire trucks rushing towards the plumes of black smoke rising towards the sky.

They had to carry Jensen to the nearest hospital and there was chaos there, too, and no surgery or x-rays, no electricity. Clay was tempted to leave; regroup, find a quiet, comparatively safe spot and take care of Jensen on their own, but Cougar told him point blank that they weren't leaving until Jensen had seen a doctor. Later, they would wonder if maybe Cougar had sensed on some level that this was going to be the last time they'd be in a fully stocked hospital with fully trained medical personnel. At the time, they just reacted to the fierce look in his eyes and camped out in the waiting room.

A lot of badly injured people were brought to the hospital in the wake of the surge. It took hours before Jensen was wheeled into one of the examination cubicles even though his wound was fairly serious. He spent the wait stretched out on the floor, dozing fitfully while Roque murmured reassurances and Cougar stroked his hair and monitored his condition religiously. Clay paced in the small space before them, a keyed-up, scruffy sentinel in a suit and combat boots. Pooch and Aisha took turns patrolling the area. They half expected to be steamrolled by Wade and his men whenever they passed a door, but nobody came for them. Nobody asked about the gunshot wound in Jensen's back either. They filled out the paperwork they were handed almost automatically, the information on it bogus. There was no way for the hospital to check it right then. They waited. They collected information.

They did not like what they heard.

The doctor who finally looked at Jensen was exhausted and subdued. His nametag read Michaels, though he didn't introduce himself, just cut off the makeshift bandage and examined Jensen's wound. He was young, but he appeared to know what he was doing and didn't seem too bothered by Cougar's dark eyes following his every move. There was still no electricity, but at least there were good drugs and sterile equipment. The curtains around the cubicles had been pulled back, because light trumped privacy. Roque held a flashlight for the doctor when the time came to remove the bullet and Cougar growled the nurse away and assisted, face stony as he cleaned the long, deep furrow the ricochet had dug into Jensen's back before it had gotten stuck in his shoulder blade. The whole area was swollen and deeply bruised, but Michaels seemed reasonably sure the bone was cracked, not broken.

"How did this happen again?" he asked, in a tone that clearly said he really didn't give a fuck but needed someone to talk to him.

"His gun went off when he cleaned it," Clay explained from where he'd parked himself in a corner. "Bullet bounced. He got hit by the ricochet."

"Well, at least you're not lying about the ricochet part," Michaels muttered, and squinted at the sutures he was setting. "Fuck. I wish we had more windows. I wish they'd get that fucking generator working."

"Don't hold your breath," Roque said quietly. More and more, this was looking like they might've gotten hit with some sort of EMP, which meant the generator would be fried and useless until someone found some undamaged spare parts. It also meant Carl with the tortoiseshell glasses might've had a point about the terrorist thing. Or at least about there having been an attack.

"Is there any word yet on what happened?" Michaels asked, fingers pausing for a moment.

Rumors, yes. Reliable information, no. Clay shook his head and stepped closer to pat the doctor on the shoulder, trying hard not to notice how damn young he seemed. Younger than Jensen, who'd always been the baby of the unit but looked his age right then, hard-edged and tough even as he lay deeply unconscious. "Probably just an incident at the power plant. You just keep doing what you're doing."

"There's only static on the radio," Michaels said quietly. "And the cars don't run."

He wasn't sure why he was talking about this to these men, except that they exuded authority in a way that reminded him of his Marine Corps uncle. It was something in the way they held themselves, had positioned themselves around the wounded man, had watched him dig out the bullet like it was something they didn't particularly enjoy but definitely something they were familiar with. Judging by the scars on the pale skin before him, they led an interesting life.

"We don't know shit, kid," Clay told him bluntly. "Nobody will know shit until communications are back up." He noticed the fear in the doctor's eyes and added gruffly, "You'll be fine. Could be over in a few days and if it's not..." He hesitated, because that was something that was hard to imagine and not something he intended to think about for a while yet, "...doctors are gonna be in high demand."

Michaels blinked. "That- that's not really comforting."

Clay shrugged. "Wasn't meant to be."

"Smooth," Aisha breathed as she passed by behind Clay, back from another perimeter check. The barely controlled chaos around made all of them edgy.

"I gotta take a piss," Cougar announced unnecessarily. Roque automatically assumed position next to Jensen to make sure nothing was going to happen to him while Cougar was gone.

"You done?" Clay asked, nodding at his unconscious tech.

Dr. Michaels nodded absentmindedly, looking tired and a bit dazed. "He lost a fair amount of blood, but all things considered he was lucky. Looks like there's a fracture in the bone, but it doesn't seem to affect the shoulder socket or scapular neck, so there shouldn't be any complications. When the power's back on," he shot Clay a defiant look, as if daring him to suggest it wouldn't come back on, "I want to do chest x-rays and maybe a CT scan. In the meantime, we'll have to find a bed for him."

"You do that," Clay said placidly. He waited until Michaels had turned around to go find a nurse then called after him, "Thank you."

Michaels lifted a hand in acknowledgement, but was too busy trying to snag a nurse to look back. Clay gave it another heartbeat or two then he whirled around and grabbed the foot end of Jensen's gurney. Roque took the front end, Aisha the IV, and off they went into the churning mass of people, straight to the nearest exit. Cougar met them there, a big, black duffel bag slung over his shoulder and his hat pulled low over his eyes.

Clay scowled at the bag. "Did you leave them _any_ supplies?"

His criticism was met with a mutinous glare and a tightening of Cougar's grip on the strap.

"It's a hospital, Clay." Roque was busy unhooking the IV and getting Jensen ready to be moved, but he still managed to give Clay a sufficiently irritated look. "They'll be the first to get support."

What went unsaid was that one of their own was hurt. _Jensen_ was hurt, and Jensen always came first in Cougar's book. It wasn't something they talked about. Might have to, some day, when all that pent up emotion came to a head and the two of them decided where to go with it, but until then Clay and the rest of the unit opted for the Three Monkeys approach: don't see nothin', don't hear nothin', don't say nothin'.

"Let's hope they don't notice until we're long gone," Clay muttered, but his protest was half-hearted and his fingers sought out Jensen's pulse without conscious thought.

"Where the fuck's Pooch?" Aisha grumbled. "Are you sure he'll be able to secure a car? They're all dead, how is he-" She trailed off when she recognized the familiar rumble of an engine coming closer for what it was and frowned. "Took him long enough."

Clay smirked at her. She should've known by then that his men were the best. Even better, they had a rare talent for improvisation. Pooch had commandeered a red truck that looked like it had been built in the early 1960ies though it was suspiciously well maintained, which meant someone was going to miss it soon. It was going to draw attention, but then every moving vehicle would.

They folded up the gurney and loaded Jensen into the back of the truck. Cougar and Roque stayed with him while Clay and Aisha climbed into the cab with Pooch.

"Next stop: Walmart," Pooch said, and floored it.

Might as well add looting to their list of sins.

 

  
**Part Two:  
**  
2,095 Miles  


The difference between a disaster movie and the _de facto_ end of civilization turned out to be intel. Hollywood always let the heroes know what was going on, gave them last-ditch TV transmissions and radio broadcasts, even renegade government agents who'd been in the know and were all too willing to spill their guts, because apparently that's what carefully trained government operatives did the second the shit hit the fan.

In reality, there was no information, because the only one who really knew what had happened was Max – who'd been in Puerto Rico when he'd accidentally triggered the apocalypse. One of the very few other people who had an inkling was Wade, but the Losers wouldn't meet him until much later, when it really didn't matter anymore. Since the incident had been global, there were no last minute transmissions of anything. Everybody was blindsided, including the man responsible, so nobody knew jack shit.

The Losers, oblivious to the extent of the catastrophe, spent the first two days holed up in the abandoned quarry outside of Houston they'd made their temporary headquarters. They needed the time to regroup and give Jensen a chance to rest and recover from the blood loss. When they finally ventured out, they discovered a lot of things like everybody else did: the hard way.

Normality had not been reestablished. There was no electricity, no water because the pumps weren't working, very few functioning vehicles, and little in the way of law and order. People were scared; hygiene was starting to become a problem, medical care no longer guaranteed, and it was only a matter of time before supplies were going to run out.

There was no "outside help" coming. If there had been, it should've arrived within 48 hours of the initial surge, which meant either there were a whole lot of disaster areas and most of them worse off than Houston... or there was no "outside" left to offer help.

The hard drive they'd stolen from Max was so much scrap metal, as was Jensen's computer, to Jensen's loud and lasting despair. He'd been paranoid enough to surge-protect his baby, but it hadn't been enough to prevent the damage. Most of the delicate insides were fried.

Also, New Orleans was gone.

They found out about that when Pooch and Jensen insisted they drive up north to check on their families and when they reached Sulphur, Louisiana, there was no more interstate and no more ground, just water and scattered mini-islands that might've been part of the mainland once. Tsunami, a shocked survivor told them. A tsunami and then a quake and then another tsunami, as if the first one hadn't done the job just fine. The Losers had actually felt the quake when they'd been en route to the quarry; it had almost bucked them off the road, causing Jensen to scream in pain and Pooch to let loose with a barrage of choice phrases that had made Aisha look at him with new respect. They'd seen the damage to the city when they'd passed Houston on their way north, but hadn't realized how lucky they'd been... how easy Houston had gotten off in comparison to other places.

"Shit," was all Clay had to say when it became clear that their mission to find Max had just been delayed indefinitely.

"How far is it to New Hampshire?" Roque asked, staring squinty-eyed at the new coastline and chewing on a toothpick to ease the tension in his jaws.

Jensen, propped up between Roque and Cougar, breathed out carefully. "We'll have to backtrack, go via Shreveport and Atlanta." He thought for a minute. The others waited patiently while he calculated their route and the distance they had to cross, probably including detours, just in case, because Jensen was persnickety like that. "Two thousand ninety-five miles," Jensen said, finally. "Give or take. Under normal circumstances, we could make it in two days."

"Yeah, but these aren't normal circumstances. It'll be two thousand ninety-five miles through enemy territory," Aisha noted, soberly. "Give or take. _If_ we can stay on the highways all the way. Back roads will take longer. We'll need more supplies. We'll need more _weapons_."

Clay glanced at her, not surprised by her cynicism but unable to let it slide. "This is still the United States of America, Aisha," he reminded her, "not some third-world country."

Aisha shrugged. "Looks like it's a third-world country now... and every shithead here is armed."

"As much as it pains me to say this," Roque threw in, sharing a look of mutual dislike with Aisha, "she's right, Clay. We don't know how bad it is, but we better assume the worst."

"Like zombies?" Jensen asked, smiling like it hurt and hunched over a little in a way that made Cougar turn around and grab the painkillers from his pack.

Clay looked at the huge expanse of water that had swallowed the southernmost part of Louisiana. Here and there, he spotted dark shapes floating in the waves like driftwood. Only he didn't need Cougar's keen eyesight to recognize dead bodies when he saw them. The gulls were feasting like feathery kings on the drowned. Nobody tried to stop them. There were no helicopters circling above. No national guard riding to the rescue. Not a single television crew or photographer anywhere in sight.

"At this point," he admitted quietly, "I'm not even ruling out zombies. Any shambling corpses show up, we are so shooting them."

"Awesome," Jensen muttered, and obediently swallowed the pill Cougar handed him. "Can I get a chainsaw?"

" _No_ ," the others told him in unison.

"One of these days," Jensen promised darkly, "I will."

* * *

The Losers had run missions in some of the world's most brutal war zones. Afghanistan. Congo. Iraq. It hadn't prepared them for the drive from Texas to New Hampshire. As bad as some of their missions had turned, they'd always known there was a home to go back to if they survived. This time, they were home, and home was being torn apart. What hadn't been destroyed by some natural disaster or other was being finished by desperate people now. The rural areas managed all right, but big cities were hotbeds of violence.

The National Guard tried to prevent the worst, but they were outnumbered and overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the problem. The Losers avoided them just like they evaded whatever military movement they spotted. No need to invite trouble or get roped into lending assistance. They had no time to play heroes and the all-consuming drive to get to their families made it an easy decision to keep moving no matter what.

They almost lost their truck in Jackson, Mississippi. A group of angry, desperate kids attacked them while Pooch was trying to circumvent a major pile-up, and though they were armed to the teeth, they were also _kids_ and it made the Losers hesitate. It was Aisha who got over it first, who shot the leader in the leg and snarled at the rest, and when they didn't stop, she hit the next one in the head. The firefight that followed was short and bloody, the odds ridiculous. It was complete if determined amateurs going up against five of the military's finest and a woman who'd killed her first man when she'd been eight.

It was the first time they had to take out American civilians, though it wouldn't be the last time. Clay made them avoid cities after that. It made getting supplies a little harder, but if there was one thing besides killing the Losers were trained for, it was survival.

They couldn't travel as fast as they would've liked. Cars were littering the streets, empty and useless, blocking their way and forcing them to zigzag or at times leave the road completely. The truck's shocks were ancient and even with painkillers and the pillows Cougar had grabbed at the Walmart, Jensen was in considerable pain. The area around the cracked bone was still swollen, which aggravated the gunshot wound, which caused Jensen to tense up, which aggravated the injured tissue, which made Cougar feed Jensen painkillers, which aggravated Jensen's tender stomach, which made him tense up in a different way... it was a no-win situation. What Jensen needed was at least a week of undisturbed bed rest so he could heal up before he started physical therapy, but every day they lost was another day Jolene, Jenna and Beth would have to fend for themselves, so they pressed on.

The ebb and flow of pain made Jensen extremely talkative and stubbornly close-mouthed in turn. When he was rambling, his tight, slightly breathless voice betrayed his discomfort and made Cougar half-mad with helplessness. When he was quiet, the silence grated on everybody's nerves. Somewhere, somehow, the smooth melody of Jensen's voice had become the team's indicator for whether things were alright with their world or not. No chatter meant trouble or violence about to erupt. It made them tense. Well. Tens _er_.

Jensen's brain was a scary place and it got worse when he had no access to a computer. He got jittery without the distraction of half a dozen different things to do with his brilliant, overeager mind, like a caffeine junkie deprived of his java. Given his injuries, physical distraction was out of the question, so Jensen's neglected synapses started to fire at random, digging through the vast data stores of his memory and pulling out every scrap of information that seemed even remotely relevant to their situation. A tech-starved Jensen was a Jensen with even less of a brain-to-mouth filter than usual and a morbid disposition.

They'd known this before, but the point was driven home once again when Jensen, in his more articulate moments, started to analyze the situation and speculate about what might've happened. Worse, he drew up scenarios of how things were likely going to proceed, and in true Jensen fashion, he was thorough, methodical, and able to quote sources for every single hypothesis. The picture he painted was bleak. A body count in the millions if the incident was limited to North and possibly South America; considerably higher if it was a global disaster. Thankfully, the numbers he tossed out were hard to process, unlike the prospect of disease, famine, and localized wars over supplies and resources. That, the Losers could imagine only too well. They'd witnessed the effects of natural and not-so-natural disasters before and hadn't enjoyed them much then either.

"You think Jolene and your family are all right?" Pooch asked after a particularly hair-raising theory about the expected decrease in the value of human life.

Jensen shifted his shoulders carefully and rolled his head against the headrest, staring out at the obstacle course of abandoned cars Pooch was navigating. "They're fine."

Pooch glanced at him, surprised by the unhesitating optimism after all the depressing scenarios before. "You sure?"

"They're fine," Jensen repeated firmly. He cracked a smile, brittle around the edges, but real. "You know Jolene and Jenna, man. They're tough. They'll do all right."

It was funny; Pooch hadn't realized how badly he needed to hear this until Jensen said it. He breathed out and felt an amazed little laugh bubble up when it was easy, as if a steel band around his chest had loosened. "Yeah," he chuckled, and for the first time since Houston dared think about his wife in more than just abstract terms. The way she'd stand, unshakable, when things went to shit. That smooth switch from sweet idealism to sober pragmatism that used to drive him up the walls sometimes. Jolene had always rolled with the punches and supported him when his own strength faltered. He sighed, relieved. "Yeah. She'll be fine."

* * *

Later, when Pooch was asleep in the truck bed and Roque supporting a dozing Jensen in the backseat while Clay steered them down the littered highway at a slow, steady pace, Roque brushed his mouth against Jensen's ear and whispered, "You know they're probably not even there anymore."

Jensen didn't move. "I know."

Roque's jaw twitched even though he'd expected the admission. "He won't take it well."

"Got to pick up the trail somewhere." Cougar's voice was like smoke in the darkness. He'd settled in the footwell, wedged against the door so Roque and Jensen could stretch out on the seat, because leaning against Roque's greater bulk was more comfortable for Jensen's bad shoulder than resting against Cougar's smaller, wiry frame. "We'll find them."

"What if they're dead?" Roque asked, because sometimes he was an asshole and couldn't keep his trap shut.

He heard a soft scrape of skin on cloth, Cougar petting Jensen's leg, and knew the answer wasn't for him. "We'll find them."

* * *

Atlanta turned out to be a problem. They could see the fires from miles off. Looked like the troops stationed at Fort McPherson hadn't succeeded in keeping the peace. Worse, Cougar spotted a group of people making their way towards them in the dusk, ducking in and out behind the bulky shapes of the cars that had increased in numbers the closer they'd come to the city. The attempted ambush might've worked if not for the Losers' habit of posting a guard whenever they approached a potentially dangerous area.

"Boss. Incoming. They're armed," Cougar reported from his lookout position. He stood upright in the truck bed, rifle already aimed.

"They'll want the car," Aisha said, cool and hard like the gun in her hand.

"What if they just need help?" Pooch didn't sound very enthusiastic; he wasn't sure he actually wanted to _offer_ assistance, not only because of what had happened in Jackson, but also because the situation bore uncomfortable similarities to most post-apocalyptic movies he'd ever watched. This was usually where the survivors encountered zombies, disease-carrying crazies, cannibals, or rogue military units... though in this particular case, they had the rogue military unit portion of the set-up covered. Pooch was still majorly creeped out and not a little torn, the former Boy Scout in him warring with the much more pragmatic soldier. He eased the truck to a halt and looked around for a way to avoid a confrontation. There wasn't enough room to turn around and the surrounding area was densely wooded. Not impossible to breach, but not fun.

Clay's face was grim. "Everybody needs help. We can't afford to lose the car. Lose them, Loser."

"You sure, colonel? That's a rough ride we're talking about," Pooch warned, already calculating their ground clearance and evaluating the terrain. Doable. Still: not fun.

"You're our transpo guy, Pooch," Clay reminded him, surprisingly patient under the circumstances. "What's gonna damage the truck worse? Bullets or off-road driving?"

Pooch scowled, but there was no way they were getting out of this without a gunfight or a risky drive and the terrain wasn't that bad. The paintwork was going to suffer the most. "Everybody hold on to something." He met Roque's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Better brace Jensen."

"Oh, fun time," Jensen muttered, less than thrilled.

"Yeah," Pooch said grimly. "Sorry, bro."

He knocked against the roof to let Cougar know they were about to move and off they went over the embankment. The truck crashed through the first line of undergrowth with the hair-raising screech of twigs and branches scraping along the chassis, but after that it bounced along gamely; the shocks might've been old, but they'd been built to last. They had a full tank of gas, siphoned from newer and completely useless cars, first-rate tires, and a driver who knew what he was doing. They also had a sniper sitting practically on top of the cab, though he started to curse like a sailor when they drove into the forest, and ducked down to avoid getting swept to the ground.

Bullets and angry screams followed them; indistinct words full of rage and desperation, but thankfully, a dark red truck with no lights on was hard to track in the gloom and firing in its general direction mostly made a person a likely target for Cougar's rifle. The shooting stopped soon enough, but Pooch didn't, not until they were a good ways from the I-20, bouncing along in a southerly direction.

"Stop the car," Roque ordered.

"Don't," Aisha objected immediately. "They could track the sound of the engine. We need to put more distance between us and them."

Pooch glanced at Clay – briefly, because it was getting too damn dark to see and Pooch didn't intend to ruin his night-drive record by wrapping them around a tree – but Clay had turned away from him, was staring into the back.

"Stop the car," Clay said, voice rough. "Now, Pooch."

Pooch stopped the car. Thought of Jensen, who hadn't made a sound the entire time. Swore. Turned on the interior lights just for a second to check on Jensen and found him face down and shivering in Roque's lap, the back of his shirt drenched in red. "Fuck," Pooch muttered.

The truck rocked a little when Cougar jumped off and came running. He damn near ripped the door off its hinges in his hurry to get to Jensen and echoed Pooch's sentiment exactly when he saw the damage the rocky drive had done. "Fuck."

"We need to get moving again," Aisha told them, scanning the darkness with wary eyes.

"We can't see shit," Clay reminded her, already walking away from the truck to assess their surroundings. "One of my men is down. We're off the road, in unknown territory, in a fifty-year-old truck. Right now, we're sitting tight until we can tell where we're going." He nodded at Roque. "Take care of Jensen and set up a perimeter. Three-hour shifts. I'll take first watch. Jensen goes in the back."

In case they had to move fast, he didn't say. Didn't have to say. This wasn't their first rodeo. They were off before Aisha could voice another objection, Cougar and Roque moving Jensen from the backseat into the truck bed, Pooch grabbing a flashlight and checking the truck for any possible damage that might've been done during their unplanned cross-country drive, and Clay striding into the dark to make sure they were as alone as it seemed.

Aisha stood there for a minute or two, uncertain about her role in the well-established team dynamics, then she muttered a curse in Arabic and stalked over to grab a bigger gun than the ones she was currently carrying. She glanced over the side of the truck, drawn by the thin, barely audible whimper of a man in serious pain, and caught a glimpse of Jensen's broad back painted crimson by his own blood, Roque's big, strong hands holding him down while Cougar examined and tended to the wound. The only light they had came from a thin emergency flashlight held securely between Cougar's teeth.

She should've been happy to see them hurting. They'd killed her father. She was the last of her family now, because of them. They were nothing to her but the human equivalent to a smart bomb, reprogrammed to find and hit Max. Cannon fodder for when they got close enough for the kill, her way through Max's security, and yet...

The pattern of their voices was soft and intimate; Roque's low rumble curling protectively around the higher pitched sounds of Jensen's pained curses and the soothing cadence of Cougar's heavily accented murmurs, occasionally interspersed with the warm baritone of Pooch checking on them. Killers, all of them. Dangerous sons of bitches. They deserved to die, and yet...

So much _affection_. So much goddamn _devotion_.

She turned away and followed Clay into the night.

* * *

Maybe it was the sight of Jensen bleeding that pushed them to the edge. The Losers had spent the past few months under more pressure than most people would've been able to take. Their lives had gone up in flames on a pyre of metal and flesh. They'd been forced to leave behind the mangled, burnt bodies of the children they'd thought they'd saved to flee like criminals, had dropped off the grid and disappeared in the jungle and the dirty backstreets of Cochabamba, cut off from any kind of support, knowing their families thought them dead, branded baby killers.

They'd mostly dealt with the experience by not dealing with it, focusing on more manageable issues. Jensen and Cougar had turned to each other as always, taking that thing between them farther into the gray area between bromance and romance. Pooch had fixated on the idea of getting back to Jolene in time to see their baby born, Roque on getting home, Clay on getting Max. Their exile in Bolivia had brought them closer together and driven them apart at the same time, though none of them could've articulated or admitted it. Aisha had turned out to be fuel to their fire and while she'd gotten them back on U.S. soil, she'd also driven a substantial wedge between Clay and his men. They'd been tense even before the Miami fiasco and everything that had happened since then had not helped.

The Losers were survivors and very hard to rattle, but they were walking a fine line by then, and being unable to ease Jensen's suffering did nothing for their combined sanity. It drove home just how damn helpless they were; powerless to stop Max, or prove their innocence, or prevent the disintegration of the country they'd fought for so hard for so many years. It was too much, too many hits; and Jensen's blood stained their hands and colored their world red.

They spent the long hours until dawn alternately prowling the woods and sitting vigil at Jensen's side, and Roque knew for damn certain he wasn't the only one who nearly killed Aisha more than once when she passed by in the dark. It wasn't even dislike (well, except for Roque; it was definitely dislike with him) so much as that she wasn't one of them. She was a stranger in their midst and in their state of high alert, their bodies and minds deep in combat mode, they saw her as such. Even Clay looked shaken when he returned from a patrol that had intersected with Aisha's at one point and Roque could tell from the way he kept his hand guiltily away from his gun that he'd felt that same twitch, had probably been a second from taking out the person his instincts had failed to identify as "teammate".

If Aisha realized how often she barely escaped death that night, she didn't let on. She did end up in the truck bed with Jensen and Cougar in the early morning hours, lay down in a corner under Cougar's watchful gaze, and fell asleep. Or maybe pretended to fall asleep. It was hard to tell with her.

Cougar spent the entire time wide awake and not moving much, something he usually only did when he'd set up a sniper's nest somewhere and was waiting for a shot. It was what Jensen called his "standby mode"; a peculiar kind of alertness that shut down his peripheral perception but allowed him to remain perfectly focused on his target area for days on end if necessary. Right then, his target area was the pale form of Jake Jensen, who was resting on his side, curled around Cougar, and whose fingers were digging into Cougar's leg whenever a movement or muscle spasm drilled a fresh wave of pain through already over-sensitized nerves.

"She knows we're alive," he told Cougar's knee when the night was darkest and Jensen shivering with a cold born from exhaustion.

Cougar leaned over carefully and grabbed the blanket Pooch had prepared. He spread it over Jensen as well as he could without dislodging the man before he cupped a cool, bristly cheek with his warm hand and asked on a breath, "Who?"

"Jenna," Jensen admitted. He opened his eyes to shoot Cougar a guilty if slightly unfocused look. "I contacted her from Bolivia." Against orders, naturally. And common sense.

This wasn't the time to slap the back of Jensen's head and call him an idiot, but the urge was certainly there. Cougar took a deep, measured breath and reminded himself that nothing had come of it. Nobody had found them or expected them to be alive until Wade had spotted Pooch in Miami. "Don't ever tell Clay," he ordered, quietly but emphatic.

Jensen nodded sheepishly and pressed his face against Cougar's jeans-clad leg, hiding or maybe just needing the contact. His fingers were tap-tapping again, a soft patter that mimicked keystrokes, the familiar motions an unconscious byproduct of Jensen's mind running through computer programs and lines of code. It was his form of meditation and Cougar might've laughed about it when Jensen had first told him, but he was grateful for it now, because the exercise helped distract the wounded man and the gentle tapping reassured Cougar.

"What does that change?" Cougar asked finally, because Jensen wouldn't have mentioned it if not for a specific reason.

"Means she's gonna stay put if she can; leave a note if she can't," Jensen explained, "but Jolene won't." His grip tightened again. He breathed through it carefully, kept it all in except for a barely-there grunt.

Muscle spasm. Fuck. Cougar would've massaged the affected area, but with the freshly stitched wound and the cracked bone beneath, that wasn't possible. What he wanted was to get Jensen to a hospital, have him x-rayed and an MRI done to make sure the doctor in Houston hadn't overlooked something, but there were no more functioning x-ray machines, no more MRIs. In a while, if no equipment could be salvaged, there wouldn't even be sufficient medication anymore, no mass production of anything; they were on their own now. They rode out the pain together, Jensen clutching Cougar's leg, Cougar whispering under his breath, the old-fashioned Spanish of his grandmother's favorite prayers rolling off his lips with unprecedented ease.

It took hours for Jensen to fall into a light, uneasy sleep, and his face didn't relax even then. Too many days of constant discomfort with no relief in sight were starting to wear on him, though he hadn't uttered a single word of complaint the entire time. He knew Clay would pull the plug if it got too bad, would find them a place to hole up and force them to stay there until Jensen was fit to travel, and by then their families' trail might've gone cold. Or, Cougar amended in light of Jensen's confession, at least Jolene's trail. So Jensen didn't say and Clay didn't ask, because they all knew it would break Pooch if they didn't get to Jolene in time or didn't find her or worse, and Cougar prayed to God Jensen wouldn't pay for it with permanent damage.

* * *

They lost a day circumventing Atlanta. It was impossible to avoid people in such a densely populated area, but they were looking rough by then and made sure to display their weapons, and though the sound of the truck's engine brought the hopeful running, they tended to stop and backpedal when they realized it wasn't the authorities coming to the rescue, just a bunch of unsavory types passing through.

It was slow going, but faster than they would've been on foot, and every time they stopped somewhere to stock up on supplies – which was a euphemism Clay used for "raid", because he hated to think of it as taking much-needed provisions from civilians even if it was just that – their stockpile grew. Medical supplies, ammunition, weapons, basic survival gear... they took what they could use and extras for trading until there was barely enough room in back of the truck to sit down. They never grabbed everything, but always the good stuff. There was no telling how long it'd be until some sort of normality was reestablished and while Clay was a decent man, he was also a hard man, ready to do whatever was necessary to take care of his own. The Losers were his priority; the goal of finding Max had become a distant future ambition. It brought Roque back to him and the relief they all showed clearly when the two of them started to walk in step again made him realize how far they'd drifted apart.

Aisha didn't like it. She could sense her hold on Clay slipping, could see him drift back into the tight pack structure of his unit, and it infuriated her. She'd been able to manipulate him when he'd been distracted by sex and their shared desire for vengeance, but this was a different game and Clay was too busy adapting, learning the rules of this new reality so he could keep on winning, to play with her. She knew she was about to lose when she slunk over to his bedroll to find Clay fast asleep, almost completely shielded from her view by Roque's massive shoulders. She felt eyes on her and looked up, and there was Pooch sitting on the truck's cab with an assault rifle in his lap, watching over his team. Watching _her_ with an unreadable expression on his face.

She shrugged as if it didn't matter, as if she didn't want to pull her gun and shoot Roque right in his thick skull or between the wings of his shoulder blades, because Roque had been a pain in her ass from the start, sharp-eyed and suspicious, always between her and the rest of them. A guard dog with knives for fangs and absolutely no interest in her as a woman, and she might've admired his instincts if they hadn't been so inconvenient.

 _Abort_ , her father's voice whispered in her mind as she sat down at the edge of their camp, where she could see them all. _You can't use them anymore. Kill them and leave. Find Max, kill Max. Stop dawdling._

She thought about it for a while. There was no denying it: she'd lost control over the Losers. Her smart bomb had changed course mid-flight. Max was out of reach for the moment. Roque was stealing back his colonel from her. She still didn't know for sure what had happened at Fadhil's house though she didn't doubt these men had been directly involved in her father's death, however unwittingly. It was her duty to kill them for it, but hard to work up the motivation. Jensen was resting against Cougar again, one hand under Cougar's shirt, long lashes painting feathery shadows over his too-pale cheekbones. Cougar's face was turned towards him even in sleep, so goddamn protective of Jensen no matter that the other man outweighed him by a good twenty pounds, all of it muscle. Roque was sharing Clay's bedroll and angled over the man like a cliff face, keeping Clay warm and safe, and Clay, the opportunistic bastard, was shamelessly burrowing under his XO like Roque was his personal human duvet.

Aisha wasn't sentimental. Ever. She didn't coo at kittens, have a favorite song, or keep pictures of anybody in her wallet. The one thing she shared with the Losers was that she was a weapon, honed to perfection. She looked up at Pooch's shadowy form still keeping watch. Pooch must've sensed her gaze, because he tilted his head just slightly in reaction. She could hear the faint rasp of metal over chain links, realized he was playing with his wedding ring again. A weakness. Love, loyalty, family ties... They were weak, all of them.

Her fingers twitched, empty, her gun still securely in its holster. She didn't move from her spot. Aisha wanted to hate them, so much, but she couldn't. She was weak, too.

* * *

They had to hide the car and sneak into Springfield in the dark of night, because there were barricades and armed guards all over the place. Mostly, this was a good sign. In the absence of central authority, many cities and towns had closed themselves off to facilitate defense against outside threats and keep some semblance of law and order. It worked better in rural areas than urban, but then smaller settlements were easier to defend and country folk in general better equipped to handle this particular kind of disaster. Still, Springfield's defenses weren't bad at all. It wasn't enough to keep out a black ops team, but it made Pooch hopeful that Jolene was safe.

The house, alas, was empty.

Jolene was gone.

Pooch stood in the ruins of what had once been his living room, staring blindly at the place where his entertainment center had been, because some idiot hadn't realized the "no electricity" thing and the damage done to the more sensitive parts of the hardware made electronic equipment worthless. He could deal with the lack of his TV. It was a lot easier than dealing with the looted rooms upstairs; they'd taken his wife's clothes, the quilt Pooch's mama had made for him before her death, even the dog toys and the baby's crib. Everything that was even remotely useful had been carried off. There was no way to tell whether Jolene had still been there when it had happened or not, but that was something Pooch wasn't thinking about, just like he wasn't thinking about his eight months pregnant wife out there somewhere, alone.

Somewhere to his right, Clay cleared his throat awkwardly. "We'll find her, Sergeant," he promised, in that rough, caring voice he tended to use when he was concerned about one of them but unsure how to express it.

"How?" Pooch asked, numbly. Some asshole had cut open the couch cushions. Why the fuck had someone cut open the fucking _couch cushions_? Had they been looking for spare change? What the fuck?

"We'll start with asking the neighbors," Roque offered, half a step behind Clay as he mostly was these days, watching Clay's back and at the same time effectively cock-blocking Aisha, not that Clay seemed to notice.

"Or we could just go to Derry," Jensen suggested, coming in from the kitchen with Cougar shadowing him much like Roque did with Clay. Like their white boys needed looking after; and under different circumstances, Pooch might've grinned at the not-so-subtle claim-staking going on there, but Jolene was missing. Pooch didn't feel like he was ever going to laugh again.

"I'm not going anywhere until I've found Jolene," he told them all, his fists clenched so hard he could almost feel his bones creak. He couldn't blame Jensen for wanting to check on his own family, but this was Jolene they were talking about. When Pooch had promised his woman "'til death do us part", he'd meant every word.

Jensen didn't take offense at Pooch's sharp tone. "That's why I said let's go to Derry," he said patiently. "Also, next time you might wanna check the fridge before you freak."

Check the fridge? Suddenly hopeful, Pooch dropped the couch cushion he belatedly realized he was still holding and sprinted across the room, almost clipping Jensen in his haste to get into the kitchen. Cougar pulled Jensen out of the way just in time and shot him a disapproving glare, but Pooch just squeezed past and came to a sliding stop in front of the fridge and the writing on the same.

_  
**Gone to NH**   
_

It was definitely Jolene's scrawl, in what looked like red nail polish. Pooch felt a sudden urge to turn around and kiss Jensen, but he couldn't tear his gaze from the sign of life even when it started to blur suspiciously. Jesus Christ. One of these days, Jolene would drive him into a full blown nervous breakdown.

"I'm thinking she headed for Jenna's place," Roque piped up, tactfully ignoring the threatening overflow of Pooch's stupid eyes.

Alone, most likely. Heavily pregnant. With only a skinny-ass dog for protection. In the midst of some sort of national or maybe even international crisis complete with marauding gangs and ruthless survivalists. No car. No gun. His beautiful, pregnant wife was-

"Truck," Pooch barked, and started to shoo his teammates out of the house. "Now!"

"You realize she must've left days ago, right?" Clay asked as he was pushed out the back door.

Pooch glared. "I need some optimism here. Jensen?"

"Jolene is fine and waiting for you at my sister's place," Jensen declared promptly and obediently, looking satisfyingly convincing though the sling marred the picture a bit.

"See?" Pooch smiled, well aware that there was a slightly maniacal edge to it. "Everything's fine. Now move."

They moved.

* * *

Jenna Jensen lived in a small, single story house surrounded by a somewhat overgrown garden and a viciously spiked fence her brother had insisted on when she'd bought the place. He had also installed a first grade security system that was completely useless now. Roque and Clay had contributed sturdy doors and shutters, Pooch had burglar-proofed the garage, and Cougar had given Beth a pair of Rottweiler pups for her fifth birthday. It was pretty much the same things they'd done for Jolene, though Jolene had ixnayed the German shepherd they'd proudly presented to her because it had tried to eat Leeloo, her Whippet. Jolene did not take well to anything or anyone threatening her family. The German shepherd had gone back to the breeder minus half an ear and a few chunks of fur that Leeloo had ripped out in self-defense. Like Jolene, Leeloo wasn't one to go down without a fight.

Roque, Jensen, and Clay each told their version of the story on the way to Derry, unsubtly trying to reassure Pooch that Jolene wasn't entirely on her own. They left out the part where Leeloo had limped along with a cast for a while there afterwards, but judging from the dark looks Pooch shot them he remembered all too well.

They all breathed a lot easier when they pulled up to be greeted by two massive, slobbering Rottweilers that looked well-fed and ready to maul every asshole stupid enough to brave the fence, even though the impressive display was spoiled a little by Leeloo bullying her way to the front, half the size of the Rotties but clearly the boss. The sight of his wife's dog made Pooch breathe out a sigh of relief and finally relax his grip on the steering wheel.

Jensen was out of the car the moment it stopped, eager to greet the dogs, and almost fell flat on his face when his knees buckled. Roque caught him, handed him over to Cougar, then eyed the Rottweilers uncomfortably. "You sure they remember us?"

"Of course they do." Jensen batted at Cougar, ineffectively trying to get out of his hold. "Lemme go, I'm steady now. 's just been a long drive."

Cougar didn't let go, but he did whistle to the dogs, which pushed them into a frenzy of barking and wagging. "Pinky. Brain. Good boys," he called, and the two almost fell over each other in their excitement. Pinky nearly squashed Leeloo. Leeloo yipped and nipped at Pinky's ear. Cougar grinned. "Good girl, Leeloo."

Aisha stared at him. "Pinky and Brain?" She wasn't touching "Leeloo" with a ten-foot pole.

"What did you expect?" Clay asked, grinning even as he and Roque fanned out to check for trouble. "The poor critters were named by Jensens."

"Could've been worse," Pooch added as he picked the lock of the gate and waded into the pile of enthusiastic canines. "Beth wanted to call them Bambi and Thumper."

That was when all the barking brought out Jenna Jensen with a rifle and Aisha found herself in the unexpected position of watching the Losers light up like a bunch of Christmas trees. She'd never seen such brilliant, beautiful smiles before, and she hated what they did to her almost as much as she hated Jensen's plump, plain sister for making them smile like that in the first place. She hated the way the woman pulled open the gate and hugged Jensen despite his obvious injury, hated those big, stupid dogs that danced around the men's legs like the Losers were the best thing since unwrapped doggy treats, hated the dark-skinned woman who slowly walked out on the porch with a blanket-wrapped infant in her arms and made tough, competent Pooch cry like a baby just as a skinny blonde kid shot out of the house and barreled into Cougar.

It was like watching a goddamn Hallmark movie, only with more guns.

 _Abort the fucking mission_ , her father's memory whispered again, but she had trouble hearing it over the laughter and the barking, and then the kid – Jensen's niece, Jensen's Beth – was in front of her asking who she was and Aisha felt trapped, cornered, no way out but forward.

"I'm Aisha," she said, her voice dry and brittle like desert winds brushing over sand, burying the ruins of what had been. "I'm... a friend."

It wasn't the truth, but - much to her aggravation - it wasn't a lie either.

 

  
**Part Three:  
**  
Heaven, Missouri  


They didn't stay in New Hampshire for long. The house was too small for them, and it didn't help that the area had been hit by an earthquake on Day Zero and the ground still moved alarmingly now and then. Could've been aftershocks, but after what they'd seen in Louisiana, the Losers were wary of quakes. They were also not really amenable to people walking up to them and trying to force them to hand over their weapons, which was exactly what the newly expanded Derry police department tried to do. The police had no other choice, what with five heavily armed strangers moving into their carefully crafted safe zone, but understanding the other party's position wasn't enough to make the Losers play ball. Clay went head-to-head with the chief of police and proved to have the superior command tone, which surprised exactly nobody. It bought them a little time.

That bit of breathing room was all the Losers needed to sniff out another post-EMP salvageable car, get it going, load it up with gas, ammo, and diapers, help Jenna and Jolene pack, and leave Derry with kit and caboodle.

When they crossed Massachusetts, they learned that Pinky and Brain were excellent guard and attack dogs, but couldn't hunt to save their lives. Leeloo, on the other hand, could run hares into the ground and she delivered them smugly and without fail.

In Connecticut, they saved a family from a pack of feral dogs. Daddy, mommy, mommy's boyfriend, two ankle-biters and a Pomeranian by the name of Butch that had bravely hid in a bag when the bigger dogs had attacked. Jolene wanted to keep them. Clay didn't. "Peter's a doctor," mommy said, meaning her ex-husband, because the boyfriend, it turned out, was a librarian. Clay changed his mind. Peter proved his worth several times after that, so it worked out fine, except that Butch the Pomeranian developed a crush on Clay and started fighting Roque for bedroll rights. That one entertained the whole group well into Pennsylvania.

* * *

In West Virginia, Jensen kissed Cougar. Or maybe Cougar kissed Jensen. Whoever had started it, it ended with Clay getting an eyeful and giving them a lecture on "time, place, and privacy".

"You can't control romance," Jensen protested, indignant.

"Watch me," Clay shot back, and told Beth to stick close to her uncle Jake, because he needed company and he'd missed her so.

Cougar had to hand it to their CO, it was an epic cockblock. He didn't appreciate the irony.

* * *

They didn't know where they were going at first. They knew what they were looking for, which was more than most people could say, but they didn't know where to find it. They traveled a country torn apart by natural disaster and violence, protecting their family, staying alive. It got harder to sneak into places and liberate goods and spare parts; more difficult to distinguish government troops from paramilitary units.

Clay tried to steer them around danger zones, but there were so many of them he didn't always succeed. Aisha came in handy at those times; she was resourceful, a good shot, and not squeamish. As much as Clay was loathe to admit it, the end of their affair had actually improved their working relationship. He still watched her carefully, because even though they might all joke about his fascination with volatile women, he knew perfectly well he couldn't risk playing with fire anymore. Clay had known Aisha was dangerous from the start and he was absolutely certain she'd been working towards at least one more goal than she'd claimed, but Aisha surprised him. She was still trying to stay aloof, but there was more give now, little cracks in her formerly impenetrable façade that clearly pissed her off but made her more approachable. Sometimes, she looked like she wanted to kill them all; sometimes, she'd reach out in unexpected ways, wary and almost reluctant. It shifted the dynamics between them, made the Losers make room for her like they hadn't before, but it was a slow process.

Cougar and Roque started to give Jenna and Jolene shooting and hand-to-hand combat lessons. Both women knew how to handle a gun and they did have some basic self-defense training, but they needed a refresher course and they wanted to get better at it. It made sense to ask the team's sniper and the CQC ( _Close Quarters Combat_ ) specialist to teach them, but Pooch still grumbled about Roque's technique.

"Can you promise not to go easy on me?" Jolene asked him after one of his lengthy and green-tinged complaints.

"Sure I can," Pooch claimed, but there was a note of doubt in his voice.

"Cool beans." Jolene smirked. "Push me."

Pooch pushed her. Jolene's shoulder barely even moved.

"Harder."

Pooch pushed again. Jolene staggered back half a step. Pooch's hand shot out immediately to steady her. Jolene raised an eyebrow.

"Fine," Pooch muttered, and wrapped himself around his wife protectively. "But I get to teach you how to build a grenade launcher from scratch."

In Kentucky, Clay and Aisha managed to get pinned down on a bridge during a firefight with a band of raiders. Their only cover was a broken-down Chevy that wasn't likely to hold out against the hailstorm of bullets until Cougar could get into position to take out their opponents from the other side of the gorge. Clay ran out of ammo and nearly lost an eye to the glass splinters of an exploding side window. Roque spotted the blood and was about to do a suicide run when Aisha got a weird look on her face for a second then grabbed Clay and propelled both of them up and over the railing. They hit the river below hard enough to knock out the already dazed colonel, but Aisha kept them afloat until Roque and Pooch fished them out a few miles downstream.

"I still don't like her," Roque told Clay afterwards, but he handed Aisha one of the soft towels, not the scratchy one.

The bullet wound in Jensen's back finally healed up enough so they could start physical therapy. Pooch had dislocated his shoulder once and remembered the exercises the doctors had made him do, so he, Peter, and Cougar pooled resources and took over Jensen's PT to make sure he'd regain full range of motion. Jensen bitched about it out of habit, but he worked hard, did whatever they told him to do, and would've kept on long after they'd told him enough. He hated to be at a disadvantage, hated that he couldn't pull his weight. Bad enough that he hadn't been able to salvage any of the computers they'd scavenged in order to distract him; the restriction of movement was every bit as frustrating. Unsurprisingly, a tech specialist in a world where most tech didn't work anymore was an unhappy tech specialist. Jensen mourned the damn internet like it had been a person.

Clay started to look the other way when Cougar administered his unique brand of comfort. Sometimes, you had to buck up and live with the saccharine sweetness of two grown men cuddling in order to avoid the nastiness of an impending depression and the subsequent very individual attempts to pull the depressed teammate out of his funk. Also, it made the women unreasonably happy to watch Cougar fuss over Jensen.

* * *

Kentucky was also the state where Butch bit Roque in a fit of jealousy and Leeloo chased the Pomeranian across the camp in retaliation. Pinky helped, tried to dig the yipping little menace out from under a pile of supplies, and brought it all crashing down. The noise drew a scouting band of paramilitary Kentuckians who for once proved to be civilized enough to negotiate instead of attack. They bartered fresh milk and eggs for Tylenol, baby powder and coffee for one of the Losers' extra water filters. Then they sat down and exchanged news and information.

Apparently, a few relatives of a relative of one of the Kentuckians had made the trip back home from northern California and the situation out West wasn't good. Most of Los Angeles was gone. San Francisco was in ruins. Parts of the coastline had split off and things weren't much better further inland. Several massive explosions had leveled half of Las Vegas. People were still dying in masses, waiting for help that never came.

"On the bright side," the group leader declared with a philosophical shrug, "this ain't no zombie apocalypse, so I reckon we'll be alright." And then he changed the subject to his dear departed father's survival techniques before any of them could slip into an even blacker mood.

Evening saw them all sprawled around a fire, guards posted, but all of them comparatively relaxed. Jolene had grabbed her trusty journal and started to take notes on how to make preserves and cheese. Pooch in turn jotted down instructions for getting old cars running again. Jensen and a gray-haired woman dressed in fatigues had taken apart one of the ham radios and were poking at the entrails like modern-day soothsayers. Cougar sat with his back to Jensen's, cleaning one of his guns and watching the strangers and the tree line from under the brim of his hat. Aisha was walking the perimeter with Leeloo, who'd warmed up to her considerably ever since Jolene had done the same. One of the Kentuckians was showing Jenna and Frank how to skin a rabbit while Peter tried to convince a wailing Lisa that Little Bunny Foo-Foo hadn't suffered. Beth and little Luke were regaling a huge, bearded hunter with the tale of Leeloo teaching Pinky and Brain how to hunt while Roque changed baby Jamie's diapers. Clay paused in his report about the destruction they'd seen on their way north to take in the picture.

He didn't realize he was smiling until the man he'd been talking to, a scruffy former reservist by the name of Vernon, raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Clay shook his head. "Didn't expect this."

Vernon snorted. "Tell me about it. Three weeks ago, I was about to take a job as a florist." He grinned and jerked his chin at the pile of dogs lounging near the fire. "Hey, what'cha want for the fluffball? My daughter'd love it."

Clay looked at Butch, who was chewing on Jensen's shoe lace. This was his chance to get rid of the hairy little nuisance. He opened his mouth. Got caught in an adoring, beady-eyed gaze and lost the inevitable staring contest. Clay sighed. "The fluffball stays."

Damn it.

* * *

In Missouri, baby Jamie got sick. Sick babies, they discovered to their dismay, weren't loud. They got quiet. Listless. So damn pitiful there wasn't a single member of their patchwork family who wasn't on the verge of panic, including the dogs. Peter was a GP, not a pediatrician, so while he could make educated guesses, he lacked the specialized training to deal with Jamie's condition.

He pulled Clay aside and told him frankly, "We need a clinic."

The nearest town, it turned out, was called Heaven. The Losers descended upon it as if the devil was nipping at their heels. They rode down Main Street in their two ancient, dirt-spattered trucks, hard-eyed and determined, scaring the shit out of the residents, the lone deputy, and the medical personnel at the small hospital where they ended up. It didn't get better when they jumped out of the vehicles armed and scruffy, faces grim and closed off, all of them tense like live wires, two agitated Rottweilers prowling around their legs.

For a moment, it looked like the deputy might confront them, but he tucked in his proverbial tail and ran before Clay even opened his mouth. Later, he'd claim he'd known they weren't there to plunder or harm, would insist his superior people reading skills had told him they were good men, but fact was he was scared shitless and in way over his head.

Something shifted in the air when Pooch went to assist Jolene out of the truck, cradling her and their baby carefully, his strong, broad-shouldered form a shield between them and any potential harm. Jenna and Beth were next; they slid into position between Jensen and Cougar with Leeloo and Butch sticking to Beth's side like burrs. Peter and Frank were both armed, but they didn't match the sheer menace the Losers exuded, and the way they herded Lucy and the kids into the circle of their grim protectors made them look a bit like worried sheepdogs.

That was how they entered the hospital; Clay in the lead, bearded and gimlet-eyed, flanked by Jensen and Cougar, the vulnerable members of their group behind him with Pooch holding his wife close, and Roque and Aisha bringing up the rear. Clay walked right up to the admission desk, looking ready to kill.

"You equipped to handle sick babies?" he asked, his deep voice gruff with tension.

It was obviously not the sort of question the woman behind the desk had expected. "What?"

"Babies," Clay repeated, impatient. "Li'l ones. About six weeks old. Can you treat him or not?"

"Uhm... we can," said the clerk, unknowingly sealing both the town's and the Losers' fate. "Follow me."

* * *

By the time Mayor Olivetti came striding towards the hospital, an unhappy deputy in tow, the newcomers had settled in for the duration. Two of them were outside with the cars; a tough-looking, caramel-skinned woman and a huge, dark man with a scar on his face who scared the bejeezus out of Catherine Olivetti. _African-American_ , she mentally corrected herself, political correctness kicking her ass even in a state of emergency. To be honest, she thought that "dark" was the more apt description. Everything about him was dark: dark skin, dark scowl, dark clothing, three dark dogs at his feet... she wouldn't have been surprised to see thunderclouds gathering above his head. This was not a happy person. Catherine glanced at the woman, who looked back over the blade of the knife she was sharpening. Yeah, neither was this one.

On the plus side, nobody had been shot or actively threatened yet, so Catherine was willing to give the strangers the benefit of the doubt. She skirted around the trucks and their scary-ass guards and hurried into the building. Marge looked relieved to see her. "Pediatrics ward," she said in lieu of a greeting. "We put them in the fathers lounge."

Catherine nodded her thanks and headed for the stairs, cursing the lack of electricity all the way up to the third floor. She'd never get used to it. Never. If she ever found out who was responsible for this mess, she was going to kick them to death with her high heels.

Deputy Knowles was having a hard time keeping up with her, though that might've been due to his reluctance to face down the potential threat. She couldn't even blame him. The poor bastard was the only remaining member of their peacekeeping force. Heaven was one of the few towns around with jam-packed stores and a fully staffed hospital, thanks to her own paranoid nature. Word had gotten around and in the past few weeks, thieves and raiders had become a serious problem. The latest attack had been beaten back at a high price. The sheriff and his senior deputy had been killed; two junior officers wounded. Knowles was the only one who'd made it out with minor injuries and was thus still on duty, but he was a traumatized kid and Catherine knew she had to find a way to relieve him or find him some serious backup soon.

First things first, she thought, and pushed open the door to the fathers lounge only to stop and stare. She'd expected dangerous, armed men and cowed women and children. What she found was dangerous, armed men, but they jumped up at her entrance with anxious eyes and the women seemed equally worried but definitely not cowed and neither were the children. The two little ones were playing with a Pomeranian under the watchful eye of two comparatively harmless looking men and a woman who had to be their mother, she had that look. One of the other, much more intimidating men, the one wearing a cowboy hat, was balancing an older girl on his hip. Another was holding a crying woman, matching glints of silver around their ring fingers. They all deflated somewhat when they realized she wasn't a doctor.

"I'm Mayor Olivetti," Catherine introduced herself. "Welcome to Heaven, Missouri, and yes, we do add the state every time we introduce our town. I think we should talk."

* * *

Jamie had to stay at the hospital for two weeks. Since it was impractical to have his entire unconventional family camp out in the waiting room for so long (and, frankly, because all those guns were making the townsfolk nervous), the Losers were offered to move into a ranch just outside of Heaven for the time being.

The Gates of Heaven had been put up for sale after the death of its owner shortly before Day Zero. It was a sprawling dude ranch with more than enough room for everybody, in good repair and not too far from town, which was a good thing because the Losers made the trip every single day. On foot, to save gas. Jolene had insisted on staying at the hospital and there was no way Pooch could be separated from her again, so his teammates took care of everything else, bringing food, changes of clothing, and company in shifts.

What they didn't realize at first was that people noticed... and that people liked what they saw. Heaven was a small town, sorely lacking in entertainment, which meant somebody was always watching and everybody was always talking. So everybody soon knew Clay and Roque were pretty much inseparable and neither of them morning persons. Also, everywhere Clay went, a determined Pomeranian was sure to follow. Pooch and Jolene were devoted to each other and their baby; Pooch might or might not be a genius, because he got the generators at the hospital running and improvised an additional, battery-powered light source for the operating room. Gossip flowed heavily around Jensen and Cougar, also a matched set but much more tactile. Couple or no couple? In the middle of week two, Marge stumbled over Jensen kissing Cougar in the stairwell and that settled the debate. Couple, definitely. Military or paramilitary?

And so it went.

The first time a small delegation of neighbors knocked on the door to say hi and bring honest-to-God fresh-baked bread, ignoring the gun in Cougar's waistband when he opened the door and the knife Roque seemed to pull from empty air to cut the offering, it was an oddity. Slightly suspicious, too. Harmless people, but still. They tossed the first piece of bread to Butch and watched him for ill effects, but the dog was fine. Greedy and begging for more, which brought the other dogs running, but fine. The bread was delicious.

The second time, there was jam, smoked bacon, and introductions to the town council. Informally, of course. No pressure. Have some butter, we make it ourselves. How's the baby? Jenna and Lucy brewed some tea and played hostess with Clay fielding questions and Roque watching warily from the kitchen. It was a bit like dogs sniffing each other to figure out compatibility.

The third time, Tara Saunders and Sue-Ann Marshal brought their kids to play with Beth and the siblings. They also brought fresh milk, because kids need calcium and it was the neighborly thing to do. The women sat on the porch and talked, keeping one eye on their offspring and the other on Jensen and Cougar, who were fixing the lopsided barn door. Well, Jensen tried. Cougar didn't let him lift, brace, or hold anything heavy, which made the procedure a tad more complicated than it would've been normally.

"Where're you headed?" Sue-Ann asked at one point. "Anywhere specific?"

Jenna watched her brother try to get a point across to Cougar by waving his good arm around and shrugged. "I don't know."

"D'you think there's a safe place left anywhere?"

Cougar caught Jake's hand and grinned at him. Jake tilted his head and Jenna knew he was grinning right back. "We'll be alright," she said.

* * *

The day Jamie was released from the hospital, the Losers threw an impromptu party. Cougar had shot a deer and they had a barbecue, inviting the doctors and nurses who'd worked so hard to save the kid and some of the people they'd gotten to know a little better. Old man Tucker brought an ancient, battery-powered record player and his Rolling Stones collection. Mayor Olivetti arrived with the town council and a whole basket full of peaches.

Sometime in the afternoon, Clay stood on the porch and took in the gathering before him with something not unlike amazement. Jensen and the church choir were yelling along to _Sympathy for the Devil_ and having the time of their life. Cougar looked torn between mortification and laughter, but that didn't stop him from accepting Beth's invitation to dance, or from letting her lead. Aisha was arguing with Roque by the grill and judging from the lack of nervousness all around they must've found a topic that wasn't about to lead to an actual fight. Pooch was sitting on one of the picnic blankets with Jamie on his lap and Jolene curled around him and sleeping soundly. Jenna was chatting with an older lady, absentmindedly brushing a blissed-out Pinky while Brain and Leeloo waited for their turn. They hadn't looked so at ease since before the doomed mission in Bolivia and Clay couldn't quite put his finger on when that had happened, but he had a fairly good idea why.

He wasn't surprised when Mayor Olivetti ambled up to him and offered him a lukewarm beer and a smile. "You know, y'all fit in here pretty well."

Clay chuckled and took a long swallow, grimacing slightly at the bitterness that flooded his tongue. Beer was not meant to be consumed warm. "You and your town have been very accommodating, Mayor."

Olivetti shrugged and kept her gaze on the happy crowd before them. "You've made it easy, Colonel."

Clay raised an eyebrow at her.

"I overheard your friend calling you that," she explained, shooting him a shrewd look. "I take it you're all military?"

"Ex-military," Clay corrected mildly.

Olivetti hummed her acceptance and took a sip of beer. "God, that's disgusting," she muttered. "Did you know we've decided to extend our police department?"

Clay did know. The grapevine, he'd learned, worked in both directions. "Good move. The town's too vulnerable right now."

"I know." The mayor sipped again then put the bottle aside with a grimace. "It'll be a long while before things get back to somewhere close to where we've been before." She nodded at the bottle. "I miss my refrigerator. I miss my cell." Her lips tightened briefly. "You know what I miss most though? I miss knowing that if anything happened, help was just a phone call away. I'm responsible for this town, for these people. I need to keep them safe, but my options have been extremely limited since... well. Since."

Clay thought about some of the things they'd seen on their journey and shook his head ruefully. "Could be worse, believe me. Heaven's been lucky."

"I know." She turned so she could look at him, her five foot frame standing tall under the mantle of authority she carried so well. "I want to offer you a deal, Clay. Stay. The Gates of Heaven is yours if you want it. The town will supply you with everything you and your people need."

"And in return?"

"In return you provide the security the town needs. You become our sheriff. You pick your deputies and you train them so when the shit hits the fan again, we won't be easy pickings. Heaven is reasonably self-reliant, but we'll have to enter trade negotiations sooner or later and I want to do that from a position of strength." She smiled and lifted her hands; what can you do? "I don't want to hire mercenaries and I wasn't kidding when I said you fit in well. This would be good for both sides. An alliance, if you will."

A home, she wasn't saying. A place where they might find a kind of acceptance that was going to be hard to come by in this new world.

"I'll have to talk it through with my men," Clay said quietly, but he was already half convinced, not only by what sounded like a fair deal, but also by the way he saw his men relax around the townspeople, blending in like they hadn't blended in with civilians for years now.

Roque was trying to convince Tucker to put down the Beatles record he was brandishing in favor of the King. Aisha had retreated from the hubbub, but hadn't gone too far. She was perched on a corral fence, watching Jensen and Cougar play soccer with the kids, a bemused expression on her face, the tight lines around her eyes softened with unconscious affection. Jolene and Jenna had settled in the shade of a big hickory tree and were fussing over a squalling Jamie; Pooch's quick retreat made Clay believe there might've been a full diaper involved.

Clay glanced at the mayor and saw her take in the scene as well, the look on her face not unlike Aisha's. "Take your time, Colonel," she said, and smiled.

"I'll let you know ASAP," Clay promised and gave up on his beer. "Two things though. You screw with us, we'll make you regret it. And if anybody harasses my men, we're gone."

"Why would anybody harass your-" In the yard, Cougar smirked, grabbed Jensen by the collar, and pulled him down into a kiss to make him forget whatever complaint he'd been voicing about the referee. Clay had to admit, it was the most effective way to shut up Jensen to date.

"Oh," Mayor Olivetti said in sudden understanding. "Gotcha. I'll have a word with our resident homophobes then."

"I'd appreciate it."

"All right." She rubbed her hands. "Wanna go get some pie?"

The mention of pie bought her Clay's ladykiller dimples. "Absolutely."

Heaven, Missouri, sounded more and more like a good place to settle.

 

  
**Epilogue:  
**  
The Sniper at the Gates of Heaven  


Jake Jensen snuffled, snuggled, and was a blanket thief. Carlos had known that going in just like Jake had known that Carlos suffered from nightmares, liked to warm his cold feet against his bedmate, and had to go pee at least twice a night. They'd learned to live with each other's idiosyncrasies, but there was one thing Carlos couldn't and wouldn't tolerate, and that was bed sneaks. He sat up, grabbed the lower end of the duvet, and pulled. Jake merely grumbled and shifted his feet, but the big, black dog curled up on top of them ducked and looked guilty as sin.

"Out," Carlos ordered.

Brain whimpered. Carlos narrowed his eyes. Brain rediscovered some of the obedience buried somewhere under layers of bad habits, sloth, and Jensen-love, and scrambled off the bed. He sat down and looked hurt.

"Out," Carlos repeated, unimpressed and unmoved. If that damn furface was still there when Jake opened his eyes, Brain would be back under the duvet in a snap and Carlos would have to take his objections to Jake. There'd be whining. There'd be puppy eyes. Unlike Brain's whining and puppy eyes, Jake's might actually sway Carlos, so Brain had better be nowhere in sight by the time those baby blues blinked open.

Thankfully, Brain was trained well enough despite his occasional delusions about being a lap dog instead of a hundred-and-twenty pound Rottweiler. The second "out" made him get off his butt and slink away, probably to find Pinky and complain about human nature. ...and Carlos had obviously spent way too much time in the company of Beth and Jolene if he was humanizing a dog like that.

"M'feeta'cold," Jake grumbled into the mattress, eyes still closed but apparently inching towards consciousness now that his furry foot warmer had taken off.

Happy to be of assistance, Carlos dropped the duvet back down. "Better?"

The brawny body next to his shifted, flexed, and then kind of flowed up against and over him like a languid, exceptionally affectionate wave, pushing him down so Jake could latch on to Carlos' throat and kiss it good morning. It never failed to make Carlos smile. It also made him hard, but most things Jake did had that effect.

"My mouth is up here," Carlos murmured, but he kept his head tilted back obligingly, because it felt good, better than good, and he could get mouth-kisses whenever he wanted to, which still sent a thrill through him every time he thought about it.

"Mmmhhmmm." Jake hummed distractedly, hands sliding over Carlos' chest and sides, petting him, maybe reassuring himself this was real. Six months, and they both still did that. So much had changed and so little.

"Coffee?" Carlos suggested, because he smelled a hint of instant hazelnut blend in the cold air and knew better than to keep quiet about it.

"Blowjob?" Jake countered, already moving down, mouthing Carlos' skin like a starving man.

Carlos grinned at the ceiling. "Okay."

The _perfect_ thing about sharing a bed with Jake Jensen? The man had absolutely no gag reflex when he was drowsy. Best way to start the day _ever_.

* * *

By the time the two of them made it downstairs into the big kitchen, most of the family was up and about. Or up, anyway. They tended towards controlled chaos in the morning. Five former special ops soldiers, their families, and one... whatever Aisha used to be... and they hadn't managed an orderly breakfast once since they'd settled down in Heaven, Missouri. Carlos found he liked it. He had grown up in a big household and hadn't known well-organized meals until he'd joined the military.

Jake plunked down on the nearest free seat, bent down to snatch up Butch from under the table, and sat the Pomeranian on the chair next to his in order to declare it occupied while Carlos went to secure their share of the grits simmering in a big pot on the wood stove.

"You have a _hickey_ again, Uncle Jake," Beth told him with the delighted disgust of a nine-year-old chaperone.

"Damn it." Jake reached up to run his fingers over his neck, searching for the mark, and Carlos paused halfway back to the table to watch him. He smirked in satisfaction when Jake discovered the tender spot and shivered slightly in remembered pleasure. Carlos had gotten Jake good this time. "What's the score now?" Jake asked, trying to sound disgruntled but mostly failing.

"146 to 132." Beth sighed, saddened by her uncle's lack of hickey-prowess. "He's gonna win this one."

"I'll do better," Jake promised solemnly. "Hey, Clay, you awake yet?"

Clay grunted in reply. He'd gravitated towards the coffee machine as he always did; his hindbrain unable to grasp that most kitchen appliances didn't work anymore. Coffee was essential. The coffee machine was supposed to provide it. Every single morning, Clay staggered into the kitchen and started to press buttons then stood and blearily waited for relief that didn't come. Clay was not at his best in the morning. It got him mocked a lot. It also made Roque oddly protective. He steered their forlorn looking leader away from the dusty machine to the table where a steaming mug was waiting. Unsurprisingly, Clay stared down at it balefully. In his eyes, hazelnut instant coffee didn't qualify as an acceptable substitute for a decent cup of joe.

"Want some tea instead?" Aisha asked dryly, proving once again that she was indeed fearless.

" _Poshyol ty_ (Fuck off)," Clay rumbled, because even half-asleep he knew better than to cuss in English or Spanish when the kids were within hearing distance.

Pooch frowned at him anyway. "We gotta come up with some kinda penalty system. I don't care if you swear in Russian, Clay, I _know_ somehow, some day, my boy will figure out what you're saying and then Jolene's gonna kill me."

"And Clay," Jolene added. She bounced Jamie on her lap and cooed. "Who's a good boy, sweetie? Who's gonna get Uncle Clay in trouble?"

Beth slunk a little closer to Carlos in her chair. "What does _poshyol ty_ mean?"

Carlos had never been so happy that he didn't really speak Russian. It meant he could honestly tell her, "I don't know," without getting into hot water.

"I'll teach you when you're older," Clay promised. All the talk about swearing was waking him up just fine. "A girl should be able to say that in at least half a dozen languages."

He grinned at Jenna, ruffled Beth's hair, and stoically made room for Butch on his lap. If Clay was leaning into Roque's side while he sipped his inadequate coffee, nobody had the heart to mention it... or the hickeys on Clay's stubbled jaw and Roque's neck.

They ate and then they cleaned up, so very domestic it almost made Carlos dizzy. Surreal, Jake had called it in the beginning, and it still was even though the feeling didn't come quite as often now. It was mostly in moments like this, when Carlos sat back and observed his family moving around each other, with each other, relaxed and easy. Clay was smiling a lot. Roque teased him about it, but never denied that he did the same. Aisha dropped her cynical little barbs then turned around and stole the rest of Jake's coffee, both of them pretending it wasn't a cherished ritual. Pooch was jiggling Jamie to make him burp while Jolene and Jenna went over the list of chores they had to get done that day. Carlos had never seen a man so happy to get baby spit on his diaper-clad shoulder.

"When do you have to leave?" Beth asked when she was done with the math test Jake had shoved at her as soon as the table had been cleared. Genius-level smart uncle, college teacher mother, and a bunch of multilingual, Special Forces trained godfathers; Elizabeth Jaclyn Jensen was going to be one thoroughly educated young lady one day.

Clay smiled at her. "The meet's at noon. We'll move out in ten to set up a perimeter and make sure there are no unpleasant surprises." Speaking of which... "You make sure the fleabag doesn't follow this time, okay, honey?"

"I will." Beth reached over, plucked the disgruntled Pomeranian from its place next to Clay, and tucked it under her arm. "Sorry about last time."

The reminder of Butch's adventures in border protection made Roque chuckle. "Man, I didn't know a grown man could scream that high."

Jake cackled happily. "Jaws of steel, bro. And balls of mush."

They all winced briefly. Except for the women, but Carlos had long learned not to take that personally.

"All right, Losers," Clay said, and just like that, downtime was over. "It's time."

"Love you," Pooch told Jolene as he handed over the baby.

"Love you," Jake told Beth as he hugged her goodbye.

"What's for dinner?" Roque asked and grinned at the dirty looks that got him. "All right, Losers, c'mon, let's go scare us some rednecks."

* * *

Things had changed.

Max had gone from primary target to future project. Rehabilitation and reinstatement had ceased to matter. Life was about survival now and about family, and it was hard and dangerous and there were no more safety nets.

Yet when Carlos stood up from the table and Cougar walked up the stairs to fetch his gear and his rifle, they walked in step for the first time in years, the man and the soldier. Grabbed the hat, kissed Jensen, and went with him to join the rest of the Losers.

There was a sniper at the Gates of Heaven, and he was there to stay.

 

 

>   
>  _"You don't have to be the strongest or the fastest to be the best.  
>  All you gotta do is be the last one standing."_
> 
> (Wolverine)

**Author's Note:**

>  **End Notes:** I've never done an end-of-civilization-as-we-know-it scenario before. Whew. This turned into the fic version of a road movie. Also, just so you know: due to time constraints, I haven't been able to do more than internet-based research on everything that goes wrong in this story, so if there are mistakes, please forgive me.
> 
> I haven't been able to find undisputed information about the effects of weaponized EMP. The most recent research I've been able to locate dates back to the 1960ies, because apparently it's pretty damn hard to test this kind of shit. Most of my sources are from the survivalist corner of the net and though these speculations are often _educated_ guesses, they are still guesses. (If you're interested in a slightly more scientific approach, the [FAS (Federation of American Scientists)](http://www.fas.org/index.html) has a [**Special Weapons Primer**](http://www.fas.org/nuke/intro/index.html) that's interesting reading.)
> 
> The consensus seems to be that nobody really knows what'll happen in the case of a deliberate, large-scale EMP incident and what exactly will and won't be affected. Ham radios might or might not work, ditto batteries that weren't in use during the incident. Older car models might or might not be salvageable. Military systems, shielded or not, might or might not survive. Effects might or might not linger.
> 
> Anyway, since I haven't been able to dig up hard facts about what will happen and keeping in mind that Max's apocalypse ray might not even be an EMP exactly and is also used on a global scale _and_ amplified, I picked and chose what suited the purposes of this story.
> 
>  **Jolene's Note:** Jolene's "Gone to NH" note is a nod to the phrase "Gone to Texas" (GTT), which was used in the 19th century when people moved away from their homes to escape debt or find greener pastures. It was often written down somewhere on the doors of abandoned houses or posted as a sign on fences.
> 
>  **Heaven, Missouri:** Made up, not real, at least to my knowledge. Any similarities to existing places are coincidental.
> 
>  **Language:** Since Special Forces soldiers are required to learn at least one foreign language, I've decided that Clay speaks Russian. As far as I know, there's no canon to back this, but for some reason I think the sound of it would appeal to him.
> 
>  **Style:** I tried something different style-wise this time, tearing up POVs, switching them around, going from 3rd person omniscient narrator into character zoom and back to mirror the fragmentation of life as the Losers know it. I kinda like how it turned out, but it might not be everyone's cup of tea. Just saying. ...should I have put this in the pre-fic notes section?
> 
>  **Title:** Borrowed without permission from the song [_The Sniper at the Gates of Heaven_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RT7e843nWfg) by The Black Angels.
> 
>  **The Dogs:** What? They're, like, _characters_. Also, I like dogs. Leeloo to the left, Pinky and Brain in the middle, and the little fluffball is how I imagine Butch.
> 
> Hope you had fun, thank you for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [podfic of The Sniper at the Gates of Heaven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1720955) by [nagasvoice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagasvoice/pseuds/nagasvoice)




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